#platonic logicality | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blazethecheeto · 1 year ago

Text

let it out and let it go

Summary: Logan is angry. Logan has been angry for a long, long time. When things get worse, Patton steps in to help.

Words: 3,937

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdowns, Implied/Referenced Self Harm

|| ao3 link ||

___________________________________________

i am so, so angry, but it is caged.

can you blame me for taking a knife and hoping that if i cut long enough, deep enough, it will finally find a way to leave?

The argument is as familiar as the sun setting. Roman’s yelling about Logan cutting out ‘karaoke night’ from Thomas’s schedule, and Logan’s trying to address how little time they have left to finish their next commitment. There’s overlapping voices, there’s lots of swearing, and Patton’s about to step in to break up the fight when someone else does.

“–So suddenly having a bit of fun is irrelevant in our schedule now?” Roman motions to Thomas’s general direction.

Logan scoffs. “Having a ‘bit of fun’ is not the priority. Thomas needs to finish his work, the work he promised to get done by tonight. Then, and only then, can he fulfill other frivolous matters like karaoke.”

"Can't you see, Logan?" Roman gestures emphatically towards Thomas. "He needs a break, a moment of respite from the constant labour you put him through! He's not a machine . "

Unlike you.

The unspoken words linger for a brief, horrible moment between them, and Patton presses his hands together, cracking his knuckles nervously as he watches Logan’s face. He merely closes his eyes, clenching his jaw, before speaking again.

“We cannot afford any distractions tonight. He needs to take some responsibility for once .”

“Excuse me, he needs this, not only to improve his voice for tomorrow’s rehearsal, but to spend time with his friends.” Roman’s voice drops, becomes gritty and mean. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You don’t have any .”

The silence in the room seems to swallow the rest of the tension. Roman’s hand flies to his mouth, but the damage is done. The glass cracks. The stone drops. Patton’s eyes dart to Logan. He grinds his teeth together, and he can see the glare in his glasses flash a shade of deep orange. No .

“Logan, I– I’m sorry–” Roman says first, his words choppy and hesitant, like he is trying to calm an unleashed beast.

“Sorry? Oh, you’re fucking sorry. Now I’ll just sink out and let you have your way, right?” He says, his voice overlapping with a familiar wrath, his shadow on the stairs behind him growing and growing.

Virgil appears, almost suddenly, scaring Patton out of his wits. He thought he had grown used to it by now, but it seems like he hasn’t grown used to anything.

“What the hell is going on?” Virgil’s voice is multiplied, his eyes darting back and forth between the three Sides.

“Roman said I don’t have any friends!” Logan’s words are clipped, almost in a sing-song voice. Like something had taken control, and none of them wanted to say it. “Interesting isn’t it, how you team up with me when it’s convenient, then lash out when I dare to contradict your egotistical views.”

He took a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. The shadow crawling up behind Logan, waiting to strike. Virgil’s face goes pale once he sees it.

“Logan, of course you have friends, don’t listen to his bullshit. You’re better than him.” Virgil growls, his voice low and masking his terror, and Patton has a feeling he isn’t talking about Roman anymore.

“Do you think I’m angry about not forming interpersonal bonds? That despite it all, I am not a true part of this family?” He presses his hands against his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m not, I’m not .”

His voice distorts with every repetition, and Thomas and Roman exchange a desperate look. Virgil bites his tongue, cursing under his breath.

Patton hesitates, then reaches out to him.

“Lo–”

He whips his head to Patton, and in that moment, his stomach drops with certainty. They had lost him. “ Fuck. You. Patton . You think you know what’s right and wrong, what’s good and evil?”

The figure laughs, his hair messy and his tie askew. He turns to face Roman, his grin tiger-sharp and his anger radiating off of his skin. “You don’t know true justice.”

Virgil closes his eyes. Thomas backs away. Roman screams.

The figure pounces.

Logan isn’t quite sure what’s in his mind and what’s real until after he regains control.

He remembers the feeling of skin in his hands, of flesh as it gets ripped off, of slaps and punches and screaming until his throat is raw. He remembers Patton holding him back, his blue eyes meeting him in one breath of air before he is drowning again.

He is drowning in the orange haze, buried underneath years of repressed pain and ignorance. He feels as if he cannot breathe. He feels like he might die under the haze, underneath the blur of violence and horrid sounds he cannot control. He cries out for Patton, for Thomas, for Virgil. They don’t come.

When everything subsides, he is in his room again, his hands tied down to the bed. His tie is askew, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, but he is physically alright. Of course I am, he reminds himself. He is nothing more than a figment of Thomas’s imagination. Even the damage dealt to the others will heal. He swears he can feel blood dripping from his hands, but when he looks, they are pale and dry.

A thorn twists inside him, but he knows they tied him up for his own good. With one grunt, Logan yanks the restraints off and sits up, the silence overwhelming.

He sits and breathes in the smoke. His bed is made, smoothed and pressed as if it does not know anger. It does not know unrest, and never had one wrinkle in its navy-blue duvet.

Logan knows better.

He gets up, finally. He looks at himself in the mirror, at his tired eyes. He barely remembers what they were fighting about. God, Logan doesn’t even remember why he attacked Roman like that.

“Lies…” A familiar, vengeful voice whispers in his ear, but he flinches and turns away. “He was never your friend.”

Logan doesn’t care. He finds he doesn’t care whether they have hated him since he appeared in Thomas’s mind, a smudge of blue, data and information streaming through his eyes, his hands, his head, his soul. That was all he was supposed to be. Why couldn’t he stay like that?

He doesn’t know what he is doing wrong. He’s tried to push down any hint of frustration. He’s repressed his hatred, and any other semblance of emotion. The small jabs towards his appearance, towards his personality. How Thomas seemed to turn to Roman, Patton, even Janus now, for advice, while he clutches his papers to his chest, burning with an anger the algorithm never meant for him. He’s tried to fight him for so long.

It never seems to work.

Logan remembers how he had resorted to drastic measures, hurting himself to quiet the voice, to release chemicals that made his soul twist inside out, pain in every fingerprint left on those cold, sticky, knives. He can still see them now, out of the corner of his eye, stuffed into the bin along with all the plans he made with Thomas on rare good days.

“You can’t escape me unless you hurt them. Because you hate them, don’t you?” The voice hisses, norepinephrine flooding through his body. “The only way to stop it is to tear them apart.”

He shakes his head. “That can’t be the only solution.”

Without warning, the knife twists deep into his chest as he remembers what he did to them, what he screamed, what he felt when he lost control. The venom in his voice burns in his own lips. Logan hates it, hates his own hatred, hates that he can feel bile crawling its way up the very back of his throat, scalding the corners of his eyes.

He feels like a forest fire. Burning away, absolutely out of control.

“You wanted them to die. Admit it, it wasn’t just me. You wanted them to continue screaming. For them to never stop. You want to make them see you, not have their gazes glaze over you, no, but for them to listen. You hope they will burn till the end of time, and you will get to watch, conscious as they relive the pain they put you through for thirty-five long years.”

Logan presses his hands down on the dresser, looking away from his reflection. He was right. Of course he was right. Those were his darkest thoughts, the ones he saved for when he was in a dark room, his head bowed, hot tears running down his cheeks as he took deep breaths to stifle his pain. But he would never carry out those thoughts. He can’t keep hurting them like this, even if the results weren’t permanent. They were permanent to his soul, to Thomas’s soul.

He glances back at his reflection. For a moment, he sees himself with jagged claws and ripping teeth, eyes alight with rotten wrathfulness. Logan doesn’t look away, only grips the dresser tighter. A trick of the light, he tells himself, as that is the most logical solution. He blinks once. The image is gone.

“This needs to stop,” he says softly, quietly, like if he said it any louder, someone would clap a gag around his mouth and drag him underneath the waves again.

This needs to stop.

Patton knocks first.

He knows he hasn’t always been good at that.

“Logan? I just wanted to come check in on you kiddo, can I come in?” He says, his head gently pressing against Logan’s bedroom door. It’s wooden and cold, a perfectly straight rectangle, with the exception of a blue splotch on the door handle. A sparkling star that is slowly fading, covered by the new coat of dull paint.

Patton remembers when Roman used to bug Logan to decorate his door just a little, to make their Mindscape look more like a ‘Homescape’. When he gave in, they had both decked out his door with glitter, planet stickers, courtesy of Patton, plastered against the wood, and swirling computer code written on the sides. Logan hadn’t liked it at first. He thought it was too distracting, meaningless, and ugly to look at. That had really hit Roman’s nerves, and they had one of their many fights.

He screamed about how Logan never appreciated the beauty in anything, while Logan argued he didn’t want his door so fully drenched in sparkle, while Patton stood in the middle. After they had enough, storming off in opposite directions, Patton was the one to find Roman and convince him to apologize.

In the end, Logan agreed to let one star sticker stay on his door handle, because he did appreciate the thought. Roman sprinkled extra glitter on that one, to ‘shine bright in his darkest days’, he had said with a smile.

Now, Patton swallows as he looks down at the sticker, covered by years of hatred. He can’t let that be his last fond memory of them before…before–

Logan opens the door. His hair is gelled back, tie tucked into his shirt, his collar smoothened. Patton wants to cry when he sees the dullness in his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands when they lean against the door.

“Are you okay?”

“I am alright, of course I am. Thank you for the measures you took to ensure I did not hurt anyone.” He hesitated, then added, “I didn’t…hurt anyone, did I?”

Patton closes his eyes, remembering how he tore at Roman like a rabid dog– well not him , exactly, but it didn’t make things easier when it was Logan’s body. Thomas was horrified, so Janus took the reins and removed the memory from his brain, before taking control of the situation with a swift hand and a grave look.

“Kinda? You hurt Roman, but it’s all impermanent. Jan stepped in before things got too bad.” When Logan sighs, turning away from him, he quickly adds, “I am sorry I had to tie you down like that, it’s not your fault–”

“I know. It is partly mine, though. I am more susceptible to his …attacks, because of this.” He motions to his general person, the dullness in his eyes quickly breaking into a vulnerable one. “I am going to hurt you one day, and it will be real.”

Patton’s hand instinctively reaches for Logan’s hand, but he stops himself, pulling his arm back. Boundaries, Pat. “Do you need help?”

Logan looks at him as if he had sprouted three horns, like he had just asked him a trick question, like when Patton had snapped at him to stop talking, a long long time ago. But then he looks down at his hands, taking a long breath.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says very quietly, so quietly Patton isn’t sure he even said it. But then he looks up at him again and lets him in his room.

He steps in tentatively, looking around. Papers and calendars are stacked in towers, sticky notes crumpled on the floor, and a dull white desk is shoved in the corner. Then he sees the knives. As the door clicks behind them, Patton turns back to Logan, pressing his hands together again.

He wants to scold him for not telling him about this sooner. He wants to wrap him into his arms and whisper reassurance that everything will be okay. He wants to fall to his knees and apologize for leading him to this point. He does none of those things.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and winces. Patton has found himself saying those two words too often lately. “I’m so sorry for everything, Logan. You needed help, and we just…brushed you aside. We thought you would hold all of us up as we dealt with our problems, but we were never there for you.”

“I know you are,” Logan says, but his voice is still leashed, like he is trying to hold back his true emotions on the matter. “It frustrates me that I can’t control myself lately. I’ve always been…so good at it.”

This , Patton thinks, this he gets. The puzzle pieces fit together, not symmetrically, but like a broken mug, holding each other up after being shattered. He can see the loneliness and the isolation of feelings unsaid.

“I think I know the feeling,” he laughs sadly, his knuckles flexing as he speaks. “You tell everyone you’re fine, that the heartache and bitterness will stay inside you like blood because it’s where it belongs. You think it will just go away if it stays there long enough.”

Logan nods, his eyes so painfully hopeful. “Does it?”

Patton shakes his head, feeling tears press in the back of his throat when he sees Logan’s expression. The knives they hold look identical in the light. “No. You’re– you’re suffocating those feelings, burying them deeper and deeper until they kill you. You made a grave within yourself and locked the casket. You can’t keep repressing…you taught me that.”

Logan clenches his fists. “Then what do I do? The other option is purely destruction, and I can’t– I won’t hurt anyone.”

“I’m not asking you to. You can’t lock away your emotions, or they will eat away at you until there’s nothing left, kiddo.”

He sees his gaze twitch to the knives in the corner, and Patton shakes his head. He knows. The blades were meant to silence, and maybe it did, for a short period of time, but in the end, there is no relief, only guilt, only grief.

“Blood does not quiet the pain, no matter how many times you spill it,” Patton says quietly.

“I just want to make it stop. But I don’t want to give into that rage.”

“It’s the only way. You need to get it all out now, so that there’s less there when he tries to take the reins. He won’t have that ammo.”

Logan shakes his head, blinking back tears that involuntarily sprung to his eyes. “I’ve carefully maintained myself for so long, and now you’re telling me to just…give in? So what, the rage wins?”

“It’s okay to feel rage. You’re not giving into anything. You need to feel it, feel it in all its ugliness, and then let it out so you can let it go .” Patton explains vehemently, but Logan just shakes his head again, pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses sliding up on his face.

“I can’t.”

The illusion of stability is cracking between both of them, a mirror breaking beneath their feet. Patton is scared no one will be left to gather the remains.

“I–” Logan stops at this, running a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes wet and blurry and devastating. “I don’t want to lose control.”

Patton sees him. He understands him. He sees his own terrified reflection in Logan’s glasses as he crosses his arms as if he could fold in on himself until he disappears.

“Please.” He moves towards him, towards his folded body, and slowly places his soft hands on his shoulders. “You need to.”

Logan meets his eyes, his arms trembling as he uncrosses them. Finally, finally , he pushes Patton aside, as if he doesn’t want to hurt him. The anger burns in his eyes, but not flaming orange. No, this anger was deep, sad, blue. He takes a deep breath, turning away. He clenches and unclenches his fists. He stares at the bin of broken promises and sharp, temporary relief.

Then, he screams.

Logan doesn’t want Patton to be there at first.

He doesn’t want him to see his breakdown, the emotion more than he’s ever shown any of the Sides. He hasn’t even shown himself this level of vulnerability.

“I hate you. I fucking hate you! ” He screams again, punching a pillow, his voice choked and raw. He doesn’t know whether it's aimed at Roman, Virgil, Thomas, or him.

He picks up the bin, the bin filled to the brim with schedules and lists Thomas promised to do. With a strangled cry, he throws it at the bedroom dresser. The mirror shatters, leaving him alone with thousands of glinting silver eyes staring up at him from the floor.

He wonders whether he has become nothing but an echo of himself, leaving behind ash and rage. It burns in his eyes, through his heart and legs and chest. He smashes and screams and hits and cries. But this, this is Logan’s pain. Not his , not Thomas’s.

Logan’s .

He takes a textbook and throws it against the wall, the noise loud and disruptive. He hates it almost as much as he hates everything right now. The emotion is overwhelming, god , it’s so, so overwhelming. His hands tremble as he punches the wall.

“I– I wanna kill you all.” He sobs. “Do you have any fucking idea how you made me feel? How you made me feel for years ? I was nothing to you. I did everything for you. I just wanted you to listen to me.”

He grips his hair, his eyes closed tightly as he sinks to his knees. He can’t see Patton anymore, only the blurry image of his bed, of furniture trashed around him, of sticky notes ripped apart like snowflakes plastered to his skin.

“I just– I just wanted you to listen.”

He cries for hours, or minutes, or seconds, but Logan can’t tell. He just knows he stays pressed against his bed, his head buried in his knees for a long time. He’s so, so angry.

Then, after an eternity, he feels Patton sit down next to him. His presence is comforting, until he realizes he had seen his entire meltdown. Logan wants to cry again. Instinctively he tries to wipe his tears away, but he remembers.

Let it out, and let it go.

He lets the tears fall.

Loneliness had always been his crutch, a grave and an embrace that kept him company, tucked away behind numbers and data. Patton was right. It did feel like he had broken out of his casket. Losing control wasn’t so bad when it was his own anger– and he realizes with a start, that he hadn’t heard his voice the entire time he was breaking down.

He finally raises his head, the unbearable weight that he had been carrying for years suddenly lighter. Patton is watching him closely, but with understanding, rather than malice. Logan is startled to see tears in his eyes too. He wipes his face, feeling his heartbeat slow, and his breathing grow steadier. After another silence, he asks seemingly no one, his face turned to the mess in front of them.

“Does it ever get better?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Patton’s face looks rueful, his gold frames sparkling in the shadows of Logan’s room. He feels an overwhelming swell of gratitude for the man sitting beside him, who had witnessed him at his worst, who hadn’t touched him or tried any sweet words, which would have made his skin crawl with fury.

Instead, he looks down at his hands, cracking his knuckles. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

Logan knows. He knew, he has known that they were all falling apart. Thomas was heading down a horrible path, and he didn’t know whether he could keep him out for another month, even with letting go of all of his own pent-up anger. And yet…

“We’ll find out together.”

The words pass over his lips, determined. Patton turns to him, his eyes wide. It morphs into a small smile, and he pushes himself up, standing above him.

“Yeah. We will.”

There’s one more thing though…the thorn is still twisting at his side. Logan remembers how he had screamed so hatefully, how he genuinely wished Roman was dead. He never wants to feel like that again, but for that to happen, he needed closure.

“I need to apologize to Roman. And Virgil…I think I gave them both a scare.” He chuckles, his brow furrowing in worry.

“You don’t owe it to them,” Patton tilts his head, but Logan can see that he was hoping he would say that.

“I do. I’ve been too angry at Roman for a long, long time. I think I’ve just been repressing it. I don’t want to hurt him again.”

Patton nods once, outstretching his hand to Logan. “Come on then, we won’t let that happen.”

He allows one smile to pass his face, taking a look backward at his room. The smashed furniture, ripped books, and tears staining his sheets, chains hanging off the bed frame. He knows that everything will be perfect the next time he enters. It always is.

But he isn’t. He never has been. As he looks back at Patton and his hand outstretched, it almost feels like a sincere apology. It almost feels like a fresh start.

He exhales, smoothing his hair back. “Thank you, Patton.”

Patton’s eyes are a deep ocean of possibilities and sunlight. He smiles, like they had just fit two puzzle pieces together, not perfectly, never perfectly, but like a broken promise, holding each other up after being shattered. “Anytime.”

Logan knows the problem isn’t going away, if it ever does. But as he steps closer to the doorknob, his hand waving over the paint and letting the blue star glow, he knows that for once, he might be able to let it out and let it go, one day at a time.

83 notes · View notes

a-little-miffed · 13 days ago

Text

Janus of the Opera

Chapter 2 - Angel of Music

Ao3

Chapter 1

Chapter summary: Patton talks to Emile about her mysterious singing teacher (implied fem!moceit)

Patton could never have imagined her life would change so quickly. It was all far too much to take in. Luckily she did not have to, for her schedule hardly afforded her a moment alone with her thoughts.

The Vicompte and Duc de Chagny had introduced (or re-introduced) themselves to her immediately after her first performance. When she saw Roman’s face again, Patton was the happiest she had been in a very long time. Greeting him with a polite curtsey, when really she had wanted nothing more than to run up to him and hug him, but she had a feeling that would have led to some stern words from her ballet teacher. Neither he nor Remus had changed one bit. Both had seemed eager to become re-acquainted with her, however Roman said he had a great many engagements at present, but would visit again as soon as he was able, a day she eagerly awaited.

In the meantime she had not much mental energy to dedicate to awaiting the promised return of her friend, for she was constantly needed around the theatre. No wonder Virgil Giudicelli had been so on edge all the time, the role of lead soprano was more difficult than Patton could ever have imagined. She returned to her dorm every night exhausted, before she used to stay up and sew (usually dolls’ dresses for the younger girls) or read books she borrowed from the ballet mistress by candlelight, now she found herself passing out almost as soon as she lay down. Or sometimes even on the sofa in her dressing room, still in full costume after the show, her teacher having to carry her to bed. The first time this happened she woke up in Logan’s arms, apologising profusely for having fallen asleep.

“It does not make sense, Madame, singing rather than dancing is so much less strenuous on me physically, yet I have never been so tired in my entire life.”

“Child, surely you must have considered that the exhaustion is not of your body, but of your mind?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There is a lot of pressure on you, Patton. You have been flung headlong into a situation hardly familiar to you. You are coping very well.”

“It doesn’t feel that way…”

“Rest is very important. I will see that you are given more breaks.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

“Goodnight, Patton. You know you can call me Logan? Perhaps not in front of the other dancers, but when it is just us, I certainly do not mind.”

“If you wish it, Madame… I mean Logan. Good night.”

Logan sighed fondly, shaking her head as Patton disappeared into the dormitory.

Her friends were full of praise for her, complete strangers were even leaving flowers in the foyer after seeing the show. She never spoke to them, the owners or Logan usually thanked them on her behalf, but still it was difficult not to be overwhelmed. A few days after she was cast, Patton and her closest friend Emile had taken advantage of a short rehearsal break to sit together in the dormitory. She regretted that they had hardly had the chance to speak since Patton took on her singing role, and the contentedness of her heart was not untainted by sadness as she looked over at her friend, especially her attire. A long pink lyrical skirt and ballet tights, her light brown hair in a perfectly neat bun embellished with a pale pink ribbon.

Since they were seven, they had always worn matching costumes. Now Patton was asked to wear things far too grand for her liking. She told Emile she had been debating asking the seamstresses to tone it down slightly, earning a laugh from her friend. And so they talked of everything that had happened, knowing they did not have long before they would be needed again. The anxiety Patton had been feeling slowly dissipated as she realised with relief that nothing had changed between them. She hoped most earnestly that nothing would ever have to.

This was part of the reason why every day, Patton asked Logan if there were any news on a new soprano. No one had heard any sign of Virgil, and it had proved difficult to find a singer on such short notice. It seemed Patton was stuck doing this indefinitely, though Emile seemed to doubt that they were searching as hard as they possibly could for someone to replace her.

Despite Patton’s wishing the conversation not to linger on that topic, Emile insisted upon showering her friend with a little praise.

“Honestly divine, Patton, I had no idea you had that voice! Where on earth did you learn to sing like that?”

Feeling the heat rise to her face, Patton smiled. “Emile, it is really not important. As long as I do an acceptable job until Signora returns, which I know she will.”

“But Patton, you are better than Virgil! You must have heard everyone saying so. Her voice is powerful, but there is a certain… shrillness to it, that makes one’s ears ring! You saw how Madame Giry would cover her ears whenever she sung a high note!”

Patton put a hand over her mouth, aware she really should not be laughing at that.

“But there is none of that with you, Patton! Your voice is like the most golden liquid honey, naturally sweet, such a soft quality on the high notes - you sound as though expertly trained!”

“It is true, I was taught by someone,” Patton said quickly.

“You must tell me!” she shuffled closer to her friend, blue eyes full of curiosity. “Unless it is some great secret, which I can’t see why it would be. It is only natural that the daughter of such a great musician as Thomas Daaé should have some musical instruction.”

Patton sighed at the mention of her father, her mind a swirling mess of longing and grief and distant, happy memories.

“Though I did sing with my father as a very young child, it is not due to him that I was taught to sing opera…”

“If you do not wish to discuss it, I understand,” Emile said quietly, drawing back from her friend, worried she’d upset her.

Before responding, Patton stared off into space for a good while, her expression illegible.

“Emile, it is quite all right. I don’t want you to think I do not trust you, for that is not the reason at all. I will explain to you who taught me to sing, but I must warn you, it is dreadfully strange and I’m not sure even you will believe me!”

Emile took her arm, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder.

“Patton, of course I will. The mere question astounds me. You with the sweetest disposition of us all, who comforts all the rest of us when we are sad, Madame Giry’s favourite pupil - she makes no secret of it. I am not sure someone with a heart as good as yours could ever lie!”

“Alright.” Emile tilted her head in confusion as Patton stood up with an air of determination and held out her hand.

“Come with me.”

The dancer-turned-singer led her friend through a maze of corridors which grew gradually more dusty, Emile quickly realising that she had no idea where in the theatre she was. Eventually they came upon an unlit spiral staircase, descending into darkness such that Emile could not see beyond the first few steps, never mind where the bottom was.

“Take my hand, these stairs are very uneven,” was Patton’s whispered instruction as she led the way.

“Patton, where are we going?” The sound echoed and bounced off the stone walls.

“Hush, Emile!” Patton hissed, the harshness of her voice shocking them both. “Forgive me. I don’t want us to be discovered,” she added as a gentler afterthought.

Emile felt a chill as they journeyed deeper below the theatre. Wearing only ballet slippers, her feet were going numb against the cold stone.

To break the silence, Patton began the explanation Emile had asked for. “It must be years ago now that I stumbled upon this place. I come down here every once in a while to be quiet and alone and say a prayer for my father. One day I was thinking about him, trying to remember a song we used to sing together, humming it under my breath…”

She stopped suddenly. With her hand that wasn’t still gripping Emile’s, she felt in front of her for the handle of an old wooden door, pushing it open with an almighty creak.

Behind this door was a small room. With stone walls and floor, lacking a single piece of furniture, there was nothing inviting about where Patton had brought them. The only solace to be found in this bleak room was a tiny window on the wall furthest from them, which let in a small amount of light, though it was far too dirty to see out or in. Emile squeezed Patton’s hand a little tighter as she was led through the doorway.

“And that is the first time I heard her.”

“Her?” Emile whispered, spinning around quickly as her eyes scanned the room.

“I was sure I was completely alone down here, though initially I had the idea she might be using secret passages that no one knew about. Thinking she was in the walls somehow, I left the room in alarm and climbed back up to where everyone else was, but wherever in the opera house I went the voice followed me. When it slowly dawned on me that it could be coming from nowhere but inside my own head, I grew quite afraid, until she reassured me. She knew my name, though she has never told me hers. I tried to ask her about herself, but she responded only with a laugh and a song. Since then I have heard her every day. Singing songs in my head.”

Emile shifted uncomfortably where she was stood, hugging herself for warmth. Though Patton’s costume was not much warmer, the temperature seemed to bother her far less.

“I don’t understand. How on earth did this… presence teach you to sing?”

“She told me I had great potential, encouraged me to sing with her. I was shy at first, I hadn’t sung properly since my father died, but she made me feel at ease. She corrected my technique, though never in a harsh way. She gives me many compliments too. She flatters me in that kind voice, really the loveliest voice I have ever heard, though it is not at all conventional - I regret she could never be cast in an opera for her voice almost does not sound like a lady’s voice, though it is not low enough to belong to a man. I really wish I could introduce her, you would like her a lot, though she can be a little sharp of tongue at times she really does mean well! I call her my Angel, for she is so gracious towards me, and I have always thought she has a voice like one.”

Emile blinked repeatedly while attempting to process Patton’s words. She laughed nervously, the sound echoing as her gaze shifted around the room.

“Did not you say you only come down here late at night?” she began tentatively. “You must have dreamt it. Patton, your merit is all your own, if you taught yourself you must say so! I won’t think you vain.”

With great resolve, Patton shook her head.

“It is true that she sings to me when I sleep. But also when I am awake. It is nearly all the time I am alone. She does not sing when other people are around. I think she must be shy.”

Even with only the low light of the winter sun coming through the window, Patton could see the wide-eyed look on Emile’s face as she slowly backed away, and immediately regretted telling her anything at all. Despite how out-of-the-ordinary this was, the Opéra Populaire seemed to be a magnet for such queer occurrences. Everyone seemed to readily believe the legend of the Phantom which haunted the theatre, so why was the idea of her Angel considered so preposterous? Emile was looking at her as though she were insane. She felt the colour rise to her cheeks, turning away from the light so her friend could not see.

“Patton, we should go back.” Emile tugged at her hand and the two left the room without exchanging another word, this time Emile leading them back up the stairs. Oh, how Patton wished she had had the sense to not say anything at all…

——

That evening, in the brief pause between the end of rehearsal and the beginning of the show, Patton went to find Logan, keen to be kept up to date in the search for a soprano. Though she would never dare tell a soul, she was beginning to find happiness in this role she had been flung headlong into. She had always preferred singing to dancing, had always been keen to improve her voice, and every time she stepped out on stage, the crowd, hundreds of eyes on her, bothered her slightly less.

She hated herself for enjoying it. This opportunity had been a fleeting gift that she would soon have to forfeit to someone more deserving of it. So why did she feel as though, when it was all over, she would never feel whole again? Then there was the tiny, even more selfish part of her which thought of Roman, wondering if he would still want to be her friend if she no longer gave grand performances like this. After all, if she hadn’t been cast it was likely they would never have been reunited.

Just as she was beginning to stew in thoughts of how self-centred she was being, the butter-like voice she was so used to spoke again in her head, faint yet always perfectly enunciated. Lately she had been even more lovely to her than usual in the comparatively little time they had together.

“Tu vas bien, Patton, mon trésor…”

A/N: Panic not, jan won’t only speak French but couldn’t resist the opportunity to drop some French phrases in this fic, put the 7 years of learning to good use :)

#moceit #sanders sides #Patton sanders #Janus sanders #Logan sanders #patton angst #platonic logicality #platonic Royality #Roman sanders #ts sides #sanders sides au #sanders sides fic #fem!janus #fem!patton #fem!logan #Emile picani #my writing #sander sides

2 notes · View notes